The Caligari Compound
by actressen
Summary: After being alerted to Moriarty's apparent growing interest in the field of dream-sharing, Mycroft sends Sherlock and John on a mission to find and recruit all the members of the Inception dream team to help stop him, and Molly gets dragged into the mess more than usual thanks to her cousin, Ariadne. Crossover with Inception. Established Arthur/Ariadne, eventual Sherlolly.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **This story was previously posted under the title _The Somnambulists_. The plot will be mostly the same, but I have made considerable revisions. I do not have a **beta **however, though I would love one. If at all interested/willing to take the position or be my **co-author **for this story, please **PM **me. Also, please review if you have a chance. I use them to improve my writing (and they make me happy). I hope you enjoy this story.

**Disclaimer: **No ownership, no profit. You know the drill.

* * *

When living with Sherlock Holmes, one had to be prepared for just about anything. Body parts in the fridge, poisonous jellyfish in the tub, exotic weapons scattered around casually like coffee mugs—every day a new adventure.

So really, waking up to a gunshot at 4 AM shouldn't have startled him. But it did. Right out of his bed and onto the floor. He scrambled to his feet and rushed down the stairs, ready for anything, and anyone.

"What's happened?" he blurted out immediately. Sherlock sat on the sofa, looking at—wait, was that _his _laptop? Oh, bugger it—a computer screen, but pointing a recently fired gun at the blasted yellow smiley face that marred the wallpaper.

"We've got a case John," Sherlock said excitedly, closing the computer and bounding off the couch. John was amazed to find that he was (properly) dressed in a button-down and slacks, no ratty bathrobe in sight.

"What?" John's sleep-addled mind could only really handle one concept at a time, and while Sherlock had been talking he had been distracted by the fact that Sherlock was properly dressed on a week day before noon.

"Honestly, John. A _case_. And not just any case—an _interesting _one. Might actually be worth our time."

Rushing over to the coat rack, he put on his signature scarf before proceeding to rush erratically around the room. Looking for something, apparently, even though John couldn't fathom what.

"And the gun?"

"I needed you up."

"You couldn't just—"

"Too far."

"But Mrs. Hudson—"

"Zimovane, John. She'd sleep through an air raid. Honestly, keep up."

By now, Sherlock was midway through buttoning up his signature coat and John was still staring at him dumbly in his pinstripe boxers and undershirt.

"Come on, John. Scotland Yard awaits!"

Honestly, he should have known better than to expect a full night's sleep.

* * *

"Freak's here. Brought his dog."

It may have been half-past four in the morning, but Donovan was still charming as ever. Sherlock ignored her, as always, shuddering at the sight of Anderson next to her, and walked briskly to the crime scene without waiting for an invitation. John followed closely behind, still completely in the dark as to exactly what was going on—even more so than usual.

"Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you so soon."

"Really, Lestrade. A case like this? I couldn't possibly stay away." Sherlock quickly put on a pair of latex gloves, ignoring the body suits. Body suits were for amateurs.

"Have your idiots touched anything yet?"

"No."

"Good. Get rid of them. I need some time alone with the scene before they muck it up."

John looked around, trying to get an idea of exactly where they were—something that was easier said than done in the dimly-lit night. They appeared to be at a hotel—midrange price, completely unremarkable, mediocre location. Approximately fifteen storeys tall. Judging by where people were gathered, the body appeared to be around the corner, on the right-hand side of the building.

Indeed, once they turned the corner they saw a body—from what John could see, most likely a man, but it was hard to tell in the dark. The police had brought lamps, but the hard lights provided little help from a distance.

He could see the gears in Sherlock's head turning, and it seemed to him that Sherlock had already deduced most of what he needed before he even reached the body, because once he did he showed minimal interest in it.

Once he got close enough to do a proper inspection, John discovered that his earlier guess was indeed correct—the victim was a man, seemingly mid to late 30s, dressed in his pajamas, who had clearly fallen from a great height. John winced. He had seen many corpses in his life, but deaths from falling always struck a nerve with him. The gruesomely crushed bones and splattered brains lying in a pool of congealing blood made it clear that the poor sod was gone the second he hit the ground.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock called, pulling the Detective Inspector's attention from Donovan and Anderson.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"I must see his room. Now. Time is, as always, of the essence."

Lestrade sighed. "We're still in the process of figuring out which room the victim was staying in."

"Please tell me you are not truly as ignorant as you currently appear to be," Sherlock berated, looking personally insulted.

"He has no identification on him, Holmes. It's not quite that simple," Anderson argued, speaking as if talking to a child.

"Is your brain truly that small or do you just not use it? He's in his _nightclothes_, for Pete's sake, of course he doesn't have any identification on him! Or do you sleep at night with your wallet in your boxers?"

John was unable to contain a snicker, which he half-heartedly tried to disguise as a cough.

"Still," Sherlock continued, "the victim's room is obvious. Based on the location of the body, there are only four windows which he could have fallen from. The only one high enough, based on the damage done to the skull, is the open window on the fourteenth floor, which, if I am correct—and I usually am—should be the fourth door on the right down the rightmost corridor."

No one made any obvious indication of agreement or otherwise, but Lestrade did head in the direction of the hotel's entrance, muttering something about asking the front desk for keys. Sherlock followed along briskly, his coat billowing behind him.

"Come along, John."

However, once they reached the lobby, Sherlock veered to the left while Lestrade continued straight. John looked at Sherlock questioningly—particularly once he realized they were headed towards the lifts—but continued to follow silently. It was only once the door closed that he succumbed to his curiosity.

"What are we _doing_, Sherlock?"

"Isn't it obvious? We're investigating a crime scene."

"We don't have a key."

"Who needs a key?"

The lift stopped, and Sherlock was down the hall, kicking the door open, before John could even think of a response. He rolled his eyes as the door hit the wall with a bang and Sherlock let out a loud whoop.

"Why, exactly, can you manage to do this but not get your lazy arse to Tesco?"

"Tesco is _boring_, John. This isn't." Sherlock surveyed the room quickly before settling his eyes on the desk.

It didn't take John long to see what had caught Sherlock's eye. There was a message scribbled on a pad of hotel stationery.

"Story time is over, Sherlock. It's time to go to bed," John read aloud, before turning to the consulting detective.

John waited for him to say something, but for once, Sherlock remained silent. Not even an insult.

"Do you know what it means, Sherlock?" John asked.

"It means I failed." Sherlock leaned against the doorway with his eyes closed.

"What do you mean, you failed?" Sherlock's reaction left John feeling incredibly alarmed.

"It means, John, that Moriarty isn't dead."

"That's not possible, Sherlock. He _blew_ his bloody _brains _out, for chrissake! You don't just come back from that." John wasn't sure who he was trying to convince—Sherlock or himself.

Sherlock ignored John's outburst, walking over to the unmade double bed, and flinging the pillow to the side unceremoniously.

"Just as I suspected."

"What?"

Sherlock picked up the revealed pistol. "American."

"How could you possibly know—"

"I suspected from the body—his hair was greasy and his skin was spotty, but his teeth were pristine—no one takes dental care more seriously than Americans. And this," Sherlock spun the pistol in his hand (they really would have to have a talk about gun safety one of these days), "is an M1911 pistol. Made in America, one of the most commonly found firearms there as well. The fact that he was sleeping with this under his pillow means he was expecting someone."

Sherlock opened the top drawer of the bedside table and pulled out a wallet. Just as he began to go through the contents, Lestrade came bounding through the door.

"Sherlock? What—"

"I need five minutes."

"Wait—"

"Five. Minutes. And please do close the door before Anderson gets any ideas and decides to lower the IQ of the room."

Lestrade sighed, but nonetheless closed the door. "So, what have you found?"

"Nash Clements. Thirty-seven. American. Architect, possibly Engineer. Left-handed. Connected with Moriarty, somehow. He was running from someone, or possibly something. But whoever or whatever got him in the end wasn't what he was expecting."

"How could you _possibly_ know all that?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

John and Lestrade both gave him the same look; the one that said 'no-it-really-isn't-now-get-on-with-it-you-git'.

"First, his driver's license. Name, age, nationality—obviously. Next, the body. He had a prominent writer's callus on the fourth finger of his left hand, and heavy graphite staining on the side of his palm. Now, there are only a handful of professions which require a grown man to work frequently with pencils. Most jobs require the use of a pen, for legal purposes, and almost all record-keeping and the like is done electronically now. He's clearly not an artist—just look at him—which leaves two possibilities: engineer, or architect. Lastly, he had a gun under his pillow. He was worried about something, had anticipated the need to defend himself. If he had encountered who he was anticipating, the gun would at the very least have made it out from under his pillow. Also, such concern for his own safety clearly indicates that he was _not _suicidal, which means this was a murder."

Lestrade glanced around the room and noticed the note on the desk. "And what about this?"

"Moriarty's back," Sherlock answered flatly.

"Back? But he died." Lestrade felt no remorse at his lack of eloquence, it was far too early to say anything smart. In fact, he felt his ability to remain standing and string words together in a logical, if simplistic, order at this godforsaken hour was nothing short of miraculous. He gave himself a mental pat on the back.

"So did I," Sherlock snapped. Obviously, he wasn't as impressed by Lestrade's basic mastery of English as Lestrade himself was.

Sherlock inspected the room for a few minutes more, but nothing caught his attention. He remained unusually quiet all the while.

"Further research is required," he finally said, "Let's go, John. We're done here."

And off he went, with his popped collar and his cheekbones and his melodrama. For someone who claimed no interest or attraction for members of the opposite sex or otherwise he sure did nothing to discourage their attentions.

* * *

By the time they left the hotel, the sun had started to rise, and there was a limo waiting for them. If there was any doubt as to who it was for or from, the sight of Anthea and her ever-present Blackberry in the back seat made it perfectly clear.

John opened the door, motioning for Sherlock to get in. "After you."

He liked to think that the glare he received in response was Sherlock's way of saying "thank you".

"You know I prefer texing, Mycroft."

"This information is confidential. Come, I have tea in the lounge."

In the end, they were brought to one of Mycroft's several country homes.

Idly, John realized that he had never seen Mycroft in the same place twice.

It was only once they were settled in the lounge with tea—John and Sherlock on the sofa and Mycroft in an armchair—that he finally began to explain.

"We had been anticipating this for a while. It was only a matter of time, after all."

If ambiguity was an Olympic sport, Mycroft would bring home the gold for England every time. Still, John knew better to ask. The Holmes brothers seemed to have their own language in which insignificant words meant various significant things. Sherlock would translate it all for him later.

"So who was Nash Clements?" Sherlock asked.

"You mean you don't already know?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Thirty-seven, single, architect, American, left-handed. But what did _Moriarty _want with him?"

"Do you remember the death of energy tycoon Maurice Fischer in 2009?"

"No," Sherlock answered bluntly at the same moment that John answered, "Yes."

"Really, Sherly, it would serve you well to keep up with current events. But, to make a long story short, Fischer's son, Robert, dissolved his empire almost as soon as he inherited it. Now, what could possibly convince the son of one of the wealthiest men in the world to destroy his inheritance?"

"Blackmail," Sherlock responded automatically.

"Not in this case. And I couldn't figure it out at first either," he added, seeing the disbelief on Sherlock's face. "So I talked to Fischer's greatest rival, a Mr. Saito, who was left with a near monopoly over the world's energy supplies. And he told me. Tell me, have you ever heard of Somnacin?"

"A sedative, is it not?"

"It is, but it's also so much more. It was formulated for use in military training, developed using grants from the American government. Injected intravenously by a device known as a PASIV, somnacin allowed trainee soldiers to share dreams—the ultimate simulation. An architect would design the world of the dream—a battlefield, of course—and then the soldiers would be brought in. They could shoot and stab and kill each other, with no risk of inflicting actual damage. They didn't, however, anticipate the long-term reactions. In the end, somnacin is a drug. Soldiers became addicted—they lost the ability to dream without it. Some even started to lose their sense of reality. It was a mess. The program was pulled, and the use of somnacin and PASIV devices were ruled illegal in most parts of the world. But that, of course, has never stopped anyone. You would know, wouldn't you, brother?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared and a muscle in his jaw twitched but he managed to refrain from retorting.

"Dream-sharing became a tool. A new form of espionage. You could literally get inside peoples' heads, steal their ideas. It was called extraction. But Fischer's case was different. Something much more difficult, and much more dangerous. Inception, they call it. Saito managed to gather a team that was able to plant an idea in Fischer's head—to dissolve his father's empire. As far as we know, this is the only case of a successful Inception. Recently we've noticed Moriarty and his criminal web displaying interest in dream-share technology. They've been experimenting with sedatives, weaponizing them. Our inside man had told us they recently had been focusing on a compound which allows them to not only invade a person's mind, but control their body."

"Hold on, hold on," John interrupted, trying to process all the new information, "are you saying that this is what happened to Clements? That he _sleepwalked _out a window?"

"That's exactly what he's saying John. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever's left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock paused. "What is it that you need from me, Mycroft?"

"Moriarty's building a team, and he wants the best. He'll go after the Inception team, and he won't stop until he finds them. I don't know who they are. As far as we know, no one does—besides Mr. Saito, of course. But if anyone can find them, it would be Moriarty. Or you. _And it needs to be you_."

"But how does Clements fit into all this?" John asked, feeling like a dunce. Clearly, he was missing something.

"Moriarty's sources lead him to Clements. He claimed to work with the Inception team, they tested him, he failed. And then he took a tumble out of a window fourteen stories high," Sherlock answered, connecting the dots.

"Can you do this for me Sherlock?"

"Fine. And once I find them, what happens then?"

"We bring them here, keep them out of Moriarty's clutches. Hopefully they'll know exactly what he's trying to do and, more importantly, how to stop him."

They finished their conversation with pleasantries—at least, as pleasant as the Holmes brothers were capable of being—before Mycroft walked them to the limo (Anthea and her blackberry in the back seat—John wondered as to whether or not she had even left the car at all).

"Just tell the driver where you want to go," Mycroft told Sherlock, tapping the tip of his ever-present umbrella against the side of the car.

John idly wondered whether Mycroft reminded him more of Jiminy Cricket or Mary Poppins with his umbrella as he slid onto the leather seats—his lack of sleep finally catching up with him.

"221—"

"St. Barts. Quickly, time is of the essence."

John groaned and sunk further into his seat. "Sherlock, can't this wait? Molly and her corpses will still be there tomorrow. Or even later today."

Sherlock looked at John reproachfully.

"No, John. I need to figure out exactly what we're dealing with here."


	2. The Cousin

**AN: **I know these edited versions are very similar to the originals, but there are minor differences that will be important later on. However, I can promise that completely, 100% new chapters are coming soon. Also, I am still looking for a **beta **or a **co-author**, so please PM me if interested. As always, please read, review, and enjoy. Thanks!

* * *

Molly Hooper was going on vacation.

Now, while this would be a quite unremarkable occurrence for a normal person because going on vacation was something normal people did, this was not a normal person. This was _Molly Hooper_, who hadn't taken a day off—for a vacation or otherwise—in all of her almost-four years of employment at St. Bart's.

Today was her last day of work before heading off, and she was excited. This time tomorrow she would be on a plane, making her way across the ocean. While she finished her report on a Mr. Nathan Daniels (heart attack), she wondered as to why she didn't do this more often. Maybe it was because she didn't have anyone to travel with. Maybe it was because she worried—pathetically—that Sherlock would find a new pathologist, a better pathologist, in her absence. He could be an arrogant sod—more often than not those words would be the best to describe him. He would manipulate her with compliments and smiles, and, shamefully, she let him. But she didn't believe that this was the real Sherlock. No, the real Sherlock Holmes was the man who jumped off a building to save his friends, knowing there was a greater chance that he would die than that he would live, despite Molly's help. The man who pushed people away, not because he didn't care, but because he cared too much. She had always seen this man in Sherlock, but in taking care of him after The Fall she actually got to _know _him. And then he decided that his return was necessary, and he returned to his usually cold and guarded self. But she had seenwho he really was—she had changed his bandages, woken him from nightmares, washed blood from his clothes (and _her _sheets)—and could no longer deny that she loved him with her whole heart. Was it a good choice? Probably not, but her brain hadn't exactly been consulted on the matter.

Her rather embarrassing pop-rock ringtone roused her from her musing. She scrambled to answer her phone before any of her coworkers had a proper chance to hear it.

"Hullo?"

_"Mols?"_ Of course, Molly recognized her cousin's voice the second she heard it.

"Ari! Wasn't expecting to hear from you."

_"I was wanted to make sure that everything was settled for tomorrow. Or really, my husband did. You know how he is." _

Molly, hearing the obvious smile in her cousin's voice, couldn't suppress the slightest pang of jealousy. Of course, she was happy that Ari was happy, but nothing made her feel more like a budding spinster than seeing her (younger!) infamously free-spirited, bohemian cousin "settled down", so to speak, with a young son and a husband she adored. (The white picket fence, however, was absent; the notion of her cousin having a house with such a thing was quite like seeing a fashionista wearing white shoes after Labor day—it simply _didn't _happen).

"Yeah, yeah. Not to worry, I'm all packed," that was, of course, a total lie, "I've got my tickets—and summer clothes, of course—and I'm really excited." Her later statements, however, were completely true.

_"I am, too. It's been ages, hasn't it?" _Molly could just hear her cousin's wistful smile.

"It really has. How is Charlie doing? He was just a baby when I saw him last."

_"He's doing great. Looks more like his father every day. He's excited to see his Auntie Molly." _

Molly smiled at that. She and her cousin had both been only children, and they were the closest thing to a sibling either one had—and therefore Molly was the closest thing little Charlie had to an aunt.

"I'm looking forward to seeing him too. How about—"

"Molly! Your assistance is required in the laboratory. Urgent, no time to explain." Sherlock's deep, booming voice startled Molly, who couldn't see the detective himself except as a blur rushing past her window.

_"Molly? Molly, what was that?"_

"It's fine, really. It's just—"

Molly could see John Watson heading up the hall, in the same direction as Sherlock (moving much more slowly, however). Upon noticing her, however, he stopped in her doorway.

"And by that he means 'please'," he apologized tiredly on Sherlock's behalf before continuing down the corridor.

"I'm sorry, Ari, but I've got to go."

_"It's _him_, isn't it? Molly, you really should—"_

Molly hung up before her cousin could finish her argument, throwing her phone back in her desk drawer and throwing on her lab coat.

"I need a blood sample from Nash Clements. Thirty-seven years of age. Should have arrived within the past hour."

Sherlock didn't look at her as he spoke, instead focusing his attention on finding and prepping the equipment he would need. John sighed from his place, sitting in at a lab bench in the far corner of the room, well out of the path of Hurricane Sherlock, and gave the detective a pointed look (that he, of course, didn't even notice). Molly found his attempts sweet, but if Sherlock's blunt lack of tact was going to drive her away it would have done so already. She was no longer offended by it. Disappointed, maybe, but not offended.

She gave John a slight smile to show him that she was alright before leaving in search of a corpse by the name of Clements.

"You really should treat her better, Sherlock."

"I'm sure you realize by now, John, that I am not one to be bothered with social niceties."

"Of course I do. And usually I don't say anything—though I do feel like punching you, quite honestly—but that woman saved your _life_. She risked her entire career, just to help you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Sherlock paused, some undecipherable emotion flickering across his eyes.

"Of course it does, John," he answered quietly, "too much."

John fully intended to inquire more about what Sherlock meant, but quickly thought the better of it once Molly re-entered, a vial of dark-red blood in her hand and a smile on her face.

Sherlock held out his hand in a silent request for his required sample, finally stopping to actually look at Molly, before quickly freezing. John saw his brows furrow slightly into the easily recognizable 'I'm deducting and likely to saw something of extremely poor taste' face, and had to fight the strong urge to slam his head against the table.

"You're happy. Why are _you _happy?" Sherlock asked, as if the mere thought of the idea was ludicrous.

"What do you mean? I'm—"

"You're always smiling, not happy," Sherlock corrected, anticipating what she would say, "fake and genuine smiles use the muscles of the face differently. Your smiles are almost always fake, but not this time."

"I'm going on vacation," Molly said, boldly and unrepentant, "my flight's tomorrow. I'll be gone two weeks."

"No."

"What do you mean, no?" John hadn't heard Molly so angry since the Christmas debacle nearly two years prior.

"I require your assistance, cancel it."

Molly gave an incredulous laugh.

"I've canceled dates for you. I've come in at two in the morning for you. But I'm not canceling on my cousin. She's the closest family I have." She looked over at John, clearly deflated, "I think I'm going to go, now. I—I have some packing to do."

She headed out briskly, only stopping briefly in the doorway. "Goodbye, John."

"Bye, Molly. Enjoy your trip."

She gave him a genuine, but sad smile.

"Thanks."

And she left, quietly closing the door behind her. John sighed, glancing over his brilliant and oblivious friend, fiddling with blood and several substances he couldn't identify in tissue culture wells.

"Was that really necessary, Sherlock?" John asked incredulously.

Sherlock wasn't listening.

* * *

"Goddamnit!" Sherlock cried, throwing a (luckily empty) beaker against the wall, where it shattered. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples as if trying to soothe a headache.

John snapped awake at the sudden noise of Sherlock's outbreak. He had fallen asleep, head slumped over the desk, nearly an hour ago.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked sleepily, not really caring to know the answer but inquiring anyway.

Sherlock mumbled some unintelligible response.

"What was that, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, John!" Sherlock groaned, "I. Don't. Know!"

The times Sherlock Holmes admitted to not knowing something were few and far between, so John couldn't help but savor the moment.

"What do you mean, 'you don't know'?" John couldn't help but tease his frequently arrogant and sometimes unbearable friend. He was fully awake now.

"I mean I _don't _know! The victim had clearly been drugged—pinprick clearly visible on the left wrist, fresh—but there weren't any drugs in the room—administered by someone else, clearly—also leaving me to believe he wasn't a junkie, not in the usual sense, at least. I've located a foreign substance in the blood, some traces of zolpidem, but I can't identify it," Sherlock sighed in his defeat, "we'll need to consult the experts."

"I don't mean to inflate your ego, Sherlock, but if you can't identify it, maybe no one can."

Besides, the last time Sherlock had "consulted an expert" John ended up with an ASBO.

"Maybe, but I don't think so. But I have a feeling you'll be needing your passport, John." Sherlock left the room without further explanation (or cleaning up, for that matter. He did realize Molly wasn't there to pick up after him, didn't he? Then again, this was Sherlock, so he probably didn't). John was left with no other option but to chase after him, because Sherlock was not the type to wait.


End file.
